


The second time is when we get it right

by Fatale (femme)



Series: Shameless porn [2]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Barebacking, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-20
Updated: 2013-05-20
Packaged: 2017-12-12 10:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/810787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/femme/pseuds/Fatale
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter blinks at the incoming text -- it’s nothing more than a list of some of the filthiest sexual acts he’s ever seen or imagined, but a quick check at the name -- ah, Neal. Of course it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The second time is when we get it right

The second time is when we get it right  
Pairing: Peter/Neal  
Rating: NC-17  
WC: approx. 1,030

Sequel to [For the first time (I will never let you go)](http://fatale.livejournal.com/243272.html)

I set out to write dirty porn but because it’s me, it’s full of _feelings_. Also, barebacking and rimming. But with feelings!

 

 

Peter blinks at the incoming text -- it’s nothing more than a list of some of the filthiest sexual acts he’s ever seen or imagined, but a quick check at the name -- ah, Neal. Of course it would be.

Peter had been strangely charmed - and ok, more than little turned on - to find out that Neal hadn’t ever had sex with another man, but once Peter introduced him to the joys of gay sex, Neal took to it with a gusto that left Peter gaping like a deer in headlights. Neal had no sense of shame, no dignity to speak of, just a bright-eyed and eager willingness to try anything once, twice, sometimes three times if he couldn’t make up his mind.

Peter surreptitiously reaches down to adjust himself.

 

\--

 

“Do you ever wear clothes anymore?” Peter asks. Not that he minds, really, he thinks, raking his eyes down Neal’s incredible body, the width of his shoulders, the taut belly, the lean muscles of his thighs. “Got your text,” he says, kind of needlessly, his pants are already tenting in the front.

“I figured.” Neal walks over to the table and while Peter’s enjoying the nice view, his gaze skitters down, down to a peculiar shimmer, a slickness on the inside of Neal’s thighs -- lube, Peter realizes, and feels his brain melt.

“Oh, fuck,” Peter says eloquently.

Neal turns around, hmmms at him, eyebrows raised questioningly.

“I’m going to - Jesus. Neal. I’ve--” His mouth goes dry, he feels the useless click of his jaw working, but no sounds coming out. “I’m going to fuck you right here,” Peter finally manages, the words high and strangled.

He pushes Neal back onto the table, ignoring his startled protests of _Peter, fuck, I eat here_ \- and pushes his legs up. He licks into Neal without finesse, just urgency to taste him, fuck into him with his tongue. Peter feels his balls tighten with the harsh, gutted sounds Neal’s making above him, the tight grip of his thighs over his shoulders.

He’s not sure if anyone’s done this for Neal before, likely not, and Peter feels a shocking thrill at the thought of being the only one to see Neal like this, to have him. He turns his head, bites the pale flesh of Neal’s thigh hard enough to leave a mark, hears the sharp moan escape Neal. Peter lowers a trembling hand to his own dick, massages the bulge there, wondering how long he can hold off before fucking Neal.

Not long, he decides.

He unzips, considers stepping out of his pants, then thinks better of it. He pulls his dick out, grabs Neal by the hips and drags him to the edge of the table, his body squeaking obscenely against the high polish of the finish.

“Do you want me to fuck you?” Peter asks, his voice low and rough, foreign to his own ears.

Neal’s pupils are wide, eyes dazed and hazy. He nods.

“Need to hear you say it.” Peter nips at his bottom lip, slick and swollen.

“I--yes, do that,” Neal says.

Peter wants to make Neal beg for it, plead and curse and tremble, but -- he grabs Neal’s wrist, distracted by the strangely delicate bones, the pulse racing beneath his fingertips, the blue of his eyes, the long, elegant lines of his legs, the vulnerable tremble of his mouth, and Peter drops his eyes, momentarily overwhelmed.

Peter knows with a kind of sick certainty that if he turns it into a game this early, this is all they’ll ever have.

He brings Neal’s wrist to his mouth, kisses the fluttering pulse, the heel of his hand.

“Yeah, okay,” Peter says in a long, shuddering breath. He fucks Neal slowly, taking his time, drawing it out like it should be done. Neal’s not a quick, dirty fuck, no matter how much he might like to be. There’s a reason he hasn’t done this with other men and Peter refuses to believe it was lack of opportunity.

God, he wants to make this good for him, _be_ good for him.

“You lovely thing,” Peter says and rocks into Neal slowly and steadily, the table creaking beneath their weight, while Neal shudders, pants beneath him.

When he comes, it’s a languid pressure, a slow build-up of pleasure behind his dick and he licks a wide stripe on his palm, jerks Neal off to his thrusts until Neal comes, shoots warm tendrils over his stomach, clenches around Peter’s cock. Peter rides the wave of pleasure over the edge, thrusts through his orgasm, contentment buzzing beneath his skin.

He drops Neal’s legs, lets them dangle off the edge of the table, leans down, kisses Neal lazily, twining their tongues, open-mouthed and hot, while Neal fists his tie, bunches it up between his hands and sighs gently into his mouth.

 

\--

 

“So,” Peter says, “the list.” He glances down at his suit in dismay, he’s going to have to get it dry cleaned already.

“Hmmm,” Neal says, limbs loose and heavy next to him.

They’d made it to the bed, but barely, with Peter half carrying Neal and Neal humming a song very slightly off-key.

“Ah,” Neal mumbles sleepily, “that, yes, I’ve been researching.”

“Researching?”

“Watching pornography,” Neal clarifies for him. “I made a list of things I’d like to try. Rimming was one of them. Go, you.”

“Always glad to help, ah, research,” Peter says, voice as dry as the Sahara.

“Quick nap and then we work on the rest of the list?”

“Yeah, sure, but Neal, Neal--” Peter jostles Neal to get him to pay attention; he feels like this next point is of monumental importance, “I’m not letting you pee on me, nor do I intend to pee on you.”

“Yet,” Neal says, and laughs, happy, shameless and unrepentant.

“ _Ever_.”

“Oh, hush. Take a nap. We’ll talk about the rest of the list later.”

Peter considers getting a glass of water, but--

“We’ll get to the list later,” Peter agrees, fingers skimming up Neal’s side, the sharp dip of his hipbones, unable to stop touching, learning, Neal’s body becoming still and relaxed beneath his hand. “We’ve got all the time in the world,” he says into the curve of Neal’s nape, the soft hollow of his throat.

 

 

The end (really).

 


End file.
